


Chambers Of The Human Heart

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Being unfaithful, Blow Jobs, Complicated Relationships, First time Holden/Bill, Kissing, Love Triangles, M/M, Reference to Canon Suicide Attempt, Reference to Graphic Murder, The Holden/Kemper is one-sided, Undressing, Work Affecting Day to Day Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: A short story which focusses on Holden and the two men in his life. The further the Behavioural Science unit progresses in its work, the further Holden and Bill find themselves falling into the void, with no-one to cling to but each other. Bill finds himself sleeping with Holden one day, and not his wife; Holden has further conflicts, and is torn between good and evil as he realises he's in love with both Ed and Bill.Mild spoilers for the end of Season One.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench, Holden Ford/Edmund Kemper
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Chambers Of The Human Heart

Their job was a _hell_ of a job. Hell was a cuss-word people used every day, to describe all manner of situations, or how long their day had been at work - sometimes justified and sometimes overblown, but never _ever_ in their league. 'Honey, it's been a hell of a day,' they might say, and they might think they're right - might think they're not exaggerating - but, for every day at the Behavioural Science unit at Quantico, every day was indeed hell, and seemed to last longer than eternity. It hadn't started out that way, of course - at least not for Holden; he was fresh-faced and enthusiastic once - _exuberent_ , some may have claimed. But things had changed.

People often asked him what he did, in-between counting the lines on his ever-aging, tired and slowly becoming haggard face. And he told them, in his calmest voice, that he studied the ways of serial killers, and tried to detect patterns in their behaviour that would help the police, and the bureau, to prevent future sprees. A simple vocation with a simple explanation - god, he even gave people a _smile_ to go with it - but it was a smile Holden had learnt to put on. Who knew that, to get inside the minds of murderers, you would have to sacrifice your _own_ mind? He felt as if, with each passing week, another part of him was lost to the darkness - hacked into tiny pieces by a butcher of the kind they interrogated.

Few people knew how he really felt, and even fewer _understood_. There were two individuals on this earth, by his count, with whom he had developed a special connection. Bill was one of them: beautiful, gruff, Bill, who managed to drive all of his worries away on the golf course. Or at least pretended to; Holden had seen that there had become a point where the banality of suburban life, barbecues, being the perfect family man and going to church on Sunday could no longer take the edge off of the pain and misery he was beginning to feel - the _pair_ of them were beginning to - these two FBI agents encapsulated in such a world of cruelty and madness.

And so, one quiet Sunday, Bill found himself not at his home, in his idyllic neighbourhood; Tench was here, with Ford, on the bed, at his place - both of them trying to make sense of everything and make sense of this. Holden felt huge hands grasping at his belt, unlooping the leather from the buckle and unceremoniously undressing him, because Bill had never been a patient person in all of the time he'd known him and he wasn't about to start now. His clothes were hitting the floor, garment by garment, and Holden had to bite back his protests when he saw a shirt he'd ironed only this morning crumpled in a heap.

Holden so wanted Bill to be the _one_. He was strong, handsome and level-headed - everything he wanted and everything he needed. But there were _two_ people, he shamefully acknowledged, who appeared to touch him on this deeper, almost visceral level - and they were both sides of the coin, it had to be said. Yin and yang. _G_ _ood_ and _evil_. It was regrettable that things could not have worked out with his ex-girlfriend, post-grad sociology student and self-confessed wildchild, Debbie. But she wasn't at all bad - she just didn't know what she wanted to be. She was young and she cared too much about what other people thought. A man in a suit would never have been right for her.

No, the battle he referred to, how his heart was constantly torn these days between good and evil, was one he never discussed with anyone - one he had hardly even admitted to himself. And, besides, it was complicated. Bill wasn't all good; he was no angel - only a man trying his best, day in, day out. But neither was _Ed_ all evil, and the thought of the latter sat much like broken glass in the pit of his stomach, cutting into his insides every time chewed food piled atop the shards. How could someone who decapitates his own mother and performs a sex act on her dismembered head ever be considered as soft, or appealing in any way? And, yet, Ford couldn't shake the notion.

Tench had kissed him - passionately, forcefully and harsh - as one would expect from such a large, dominant fellow. Bill never did anything by halves; he had stripped Holden of his clothes in only a few minutes, and was now moving a desperate mouth all over his body - having started at his quivering lips - marking the pale skin with reddened circular shapes, all the way from the tip of his shoulder to his chest, which was presently heaving with trepidation. But Ford's tongue felt fat and numb within his mouth, after its battle with Tench's own wet, sticky muscle; it almost felt so big that he could barely talk. Nothing was happening for him and he certainly wasn't getting hard.

It was such a disappointment, and not only for himself - Bill looked up at him through confused eyes as the flaccid organ, dripping with saliva, popped from his mouth. He toyed with the lubricated cock, slid it between dextrous fingers and squeezed, though - still, sadly - there was no sign of movement down there. Perhaps this was a dreadful realisation that Bill was not the one Holden wanted, after all. Or was this a case of first-time nerves? Or...? Wendy's words resonated with him: "When we empathise with a psychopath, we actually negate the self. We deny our own beliefs about decency and humanity and that can be very dangerous."

Holden had known exactly why Ed Kemper wrapping his arms around him like that had brought about a panic attack, but he couldn't tell a damned soul. Holden had broken down because he'd been inches away from attempting to kiss a cold-blooded killer, who had just tried to take his own life in a bid to escape a lifetime of jail for slaughtering several co-eds - and, in spite of all of his education and training, in no way could he begin to explain his desire for wanting to do that, and why he felt so inexplicably drawn to this terrible monster. It was downright sick and, yes, dangerous. He was sick, and the doctors had told him as much. Was he... like _him_ ... he had to wonder.

He involuntarily, in response to his thoughts, glanced at the small pot of pills on the bedside table, and - as a result - found the perfect excuse. "I'm sorry-- It's the Valium," he lied, through gritted teeth. But Bill was no idiot; he _knew_ Holden - and he knew about Holden's obsession. He rolled across to the other side of the bed, turned to face the window and chose to no longer speak. When Tench found himself waiting for a consoling hug from his partner, it never came - so - they merely stared for minutes, in silence, at opposite ends of the room, listening to the clock tick. They would forgive one another, in the end. Ford knew it. Ford _prayed._ They always did. It was their routine.


End file.
